Seriously
by colossalpenguin
Summary: Why did I ever think that it'd be fun to play around the Bates? I mean they look interesting, but why did I even think about it? Now I'm stuck with a blonde bad boy trying the impossible to call me his own and I have the drug boss after my Uncle's ass for money. Seriously, how fucking dumb am I? DylanXOC. Rated M.
1. Chapter 1

chapter one:

White Pine Bay was home to all sorts of people. There was the drug dealers, the drug deliverers, the law enforcement, not to mention a city council, a motel, and an intriguing little dramatic story. The town was aware of the peculiar boy, Norman, who often did quirky things or said quirky things. In all, he was a bizarre young man. The mother, Norma, was equivalently... quirky. Dressing in the fashion of late 1950's, the dynamic and... quirky duo were known for their questionable behavior.

That's how Caroline Jacobson thought about the Bates'. They were quirky little human beings with a little bit of blood on their hands and dirt under their porcelain nails. They ran their hotel like no one ever died on their kitchen floor, and presented their perfect faces at city council meetings like a body hadn't laid on their front steps. How did Caroline know all this? She had a tendency to put her nose into places it didn't belong. And also she was Remo Wallace's niece, which did help to get the information she always craved.

One day, she decided she was going to befriend the... quirky Norman Bates.

* * *

He was sitting outside the ice cream store, under a hot baking sun, with chocolate vanilla being licked into his mouth. His brown, infantile eyes scanned the busy main road, while his bony fingers drummed a beat on his right knee. He wore a plaid t-shirt and beige shorts, almost like he was going to the golf club. An air of innocence, almost purity, dominated the boy as he joyfully lapped at the rapidly melting ice cream.

"Norman Bates, right?" I asked, my voice drawling out of the sound of cars and life around me. I shielded my eyes from the hot sun with one hand while the other hid in the pockets of my shorts. The boy looked up curiously, smiling his childish grin, and nodded.

"Yup," he said, giddy, "that's me."

I huffed and nodded. He was chewing on his bottom lip like it was a piece of chocolate and I had the apathetic urge to rip the lip from his teeth.

"You are?" he asked, cocking a head to the side. His dark hair caught the sunlight and reflected strands of crimson.

"Caroline Jacobson," I answered. He stuck out his head.

God dammit. What is it with people and physical contact? Why does a human need to establish some type of skin to skin contact to be able to introduce his or herself? Just the thought of touching someone made me want to vomit. I was not a germ freak or a super hygienic person, there was just something wrong with me. The feel of skin on my own was gut wrenching.

When Norman saw that his hand would linger in mid air forever, he awkwardly retracted and placed it back on his knee. "Sorry," I mumbled, "I don't do the hand shaking thing."

The peculiar boy shrugged amiably and resumed the licking of his ice cream. He didn't notice the small spot of the treat that had fallen on his shirt, but I did and I could foreshadow an angry Norma.

"You need any help at school?" I asked, leaning on one leg and crossing my arms. The sun had managed to create a sheen of sweat on the length of my body.

"I'm managing," he choked between laps. "I've got an amazing Language Arts teacher. Do you know Mrs. Watson?"

I smiled sincerely. "She's also my teacher, Norman," I answered. He frowned. "I have the same classes as you."

He brightened up, smiling and showing all his pearly whites. Muscles stretched as he craned his neck to view me better from under the sun. The abominable round boiling sphere in the sky had made sight almost impossible.

"Oh, yes!" he exclaimed. "I recognize you! Pardon my rudeness. I've had a hard time catching your features under this sun."

I huffed. He was interesting. What kind of seventeen year old boy spoke with such vocabulary? I mean, for my essays I busted my ass to write like he talks. However, on my everyday conversations I merely used common language.

"Yeah, the weathers been giving everyone a hard time," I sighed, looking across the street and seeing the blurry outlines of the horizon. "My old folks have been having heat strokes since this heat came out."

The remark made Norman laugh, but it was a rehearsed, polite laugh. I knew what I had just said was not even close to funny, let alone laugh-wholeheartedly hilarious. But I admired Norman's cue for politeness and respect. He knew I had tried to break the ice, to alleviate the awkwardness.

"Look," I started, "I need help with that personal response Watson gave us last week. I suck ass at those things. And I saw how perfect of a student you are, Norman. And even though I really want to be your friend, I'm also asking for help."

I sucked on my bottom lip, staring at him while he contemplated the offer. "No one's perfect," he mumbled. "Let alone me. But I'd be happy to help you, Caroline."

I smiled all my pearly whites this time. "Thank you!"

"And I'd also like to be your friend as well," he replied, throwing his ice cream cone in the garbage.

"Do you need a ride home?" I asked. He nodded.

* * *

The Bates Motel, situated on the town's most common road, was a gloomy little place. The family had re-patched it up very well, but there was still the air of the old Seafairer Motel lingering. I've heard many legendary horror stories about the old place, but never once had the police confirmed the said myths. Until Norma Bates bought the rundown thing, it had always been the creaking old place that Keith Summers owned. And now Norma had killed him.

But sh, I'm not supposed to know that.

Norman sat like he'd been polished by the Queen of England and educated by the Pope. His hands remained on his knees while he politely smiled at me whenever we made eye contact. Crossing over onto the road leading to the motel, I changed the music to some rap, the powerful bass pounding on the seats and joining with our heartbeats. I wasn't fond of rap music, but just the raw power the loud bass gave off was suiting enough for me.

We arrived at the motel and I parked my Jeep by the side of the office. Norman and I both got out and I followed him up the million steps leading to his front porch. I tried to ignore the reddish stain on the stone, but the need to stare was overpowering.

"My mother is home," Norman declared, almost frightened. "I hope you don't mind?"

I shook my head.

The door to the old Summers' place creaked open, hanging on its petty hinges as both Norman and I strolled in. Creepy, eerie silence washed up to my ears and the heaviness of the Bates/Summers' home crashed over me. It was impossibly gloomy and murky in the house. The only sunlight came from the kitchen, and as Norman walked me to the said room, I caught sight of the living room and its closed drapes, old fashioned cushions and couches, and the old black and white television. The walls were dark, a shade of brown that screamed murder house. Only the kitchen, that nursed semi-old furniture, was basking in sunlight. The smell of cooking break tickled my nostrils as Norman walked me into the Mr. Net smelling room.

"Mother," he announced. I cringed. Who the fuck calls their mom mother?

"Oh, Norman, I made some-"

Norma Bates stopped midway from giving her son a hug and kiss before her clear blue eyes caught mine. She let out a small sound of surprise and looked me over. I could tell the judgment in her eyes as she evidently took in my appearance. Deff Leppard tank top, light jean shorts, fishnet stockings, lazily laced combat boots, corn row braids in my hair and eyeliner on my water line. Some said the typical bad girl look. I said my everyday look. Her shiny eyes landed on my shoulder tattoo and she gasped silently.

Norma was a posh little woman. She was little, but wore heels to show authority. Her light blonde hair was perfectly trimmed and styled as it framed a pretty face with innocent features.

"Who are you?" she asked in a voice mixed with disgust and friendliness.

"Mom, this is Caroline Jacobson. I'm helping her with her personal response for Mrs. Watson," Norman cleared out. I smiled and waved at her slowly.

And then she did the thing. She stuck out her hand and demanded I shake it. "I'm happy to meet you," she said. "I'm always glad to meet Norman's friends." A smile, showing perfectly aligned teeth, stretched on her mouth. I gulped. Oh shit.

There was an awkward silence and a moment where the stillness in the room became impossible. Before I could puke or run, I merely touched her hand and shook it once. A surprised and confused look covered her delicate, feminine features before she smiled.

"Norman," she said, looking at her son like she knew he was going to rob a bank. "Can I speak to you? Hm, in the stairs please?"

"Of course, mother."

Yuck. Mother.

"We'll be right back, honey. You can sit. Do you want anything to drink?" Norma put a hand on the bottom of my back and I felt bile at the back of my throat. All I could feel was the hand, and the burning sensation of her fingertips burning into my flesh. _Please,_ I thought. _Don't touch me._

"Water, please," I managed to croak out. She giggled nervously, poured me a glass of lemonade, and hushed her son out into the hallway.

I gulped down the lemonade, that I did not fucking want, and set the glass on the table. Hushed, harsh voices came to me from the hall. I smirked.

Getting up from my chair, the noises in the hall increased and I found myself slowly inching towards the source. My ears craned for any words as I silently made my way out the kitchen. I knew the type like Norma would warn her son to stay away from me. They always do. I was the type of girl that mothers were perpetually afraid of. Not for their own skins, but for their sons. They didn't want their perfect little dickhead boys to marry a tattooed, careless girl that wore fishnet leggings and drove dirty Jeep Wranglers.

A mother of some guy I was seeing five months ago had told me that I was the nightmare of every mother. I was the screaming terror of the mothers who wanted their sons to marry posh blonde women and have red cheeked babies. I had just one fucking tattoo, and now every family snatched their sons away from me like I was quick sand.

"Norman, please," Norma begged in a whisper. "You barely know this girl and you bring her into our house? Norman, she has a tattoo, and she dresses like a stripper."

"Mother!" Norman gasped. "You are one to judge!"

"Norman, honey, I wouldn't have judged her if she hadn't acted all weird when she shook my hand." I rolled my eyes. Humans and their physical contact.

"She doesn't do the hand shaking thing," Norman answered quietly. I smiled at his defense.

"Well, Norman, I'm just saying I don't want you being friends with her," the mother countered. "I think you can do better."

What am I, a school grade? I huffed and continued to listen.

Just as Norman was about to say something, the front door swung open ferociously and in stepped a dirty blonde haired man. The loud clamping of his boots scared me as he swung the door closed and looked up into the stairs. His blue grey eyes scanned what must have been a secretive mess in the stairs before they landed on me and narrowed.

"Who's this?" he asked. His voice was scruff, manly, and a bit attractive. He was rough around the edges and messy, not to mention smelly. An unshaven stubble adorned his chin and the smell of weed smoke and dog shit reeked off him.

"Oh, this is Caroline Jacobson," Norman nervously answered, galloping down the stairs.

The man rose a brow and looked me over. I froze, unable to move under his piercing, intimidating gaze. "I'm Dylan," he said all at once.

"Caroline, this is my brother, he lives here," Norman clarified. I nodded.

Dylan walked right passed me and into the kitchen, the foul smell of his body making me gag internally. I had a good idea where this man worked and who he worked for. It was no secret White Pine Bay lived off of weed money.

"Caroline, I'm really sorry to say this," Norma started as she slowly made her way down the stairs, "but this is not really a good time for visitors. I'd like you to leave please."

I smirked cockily. I knew this was going to happen. A posh woman wearing a flower dress would not dare let her oh so beloved son hang out with a tattooed, dark haired girl with a foreshadowed bad attitude.

"Sure," I mumbled, brushing passed her. "T'was nice to meet the Bates finally!" I shouted before opening the door and letting myself out.

Why did I have the fucking stupid idea to implant myself in the Bates' lives? Like why in the world did I ever think that'd be fun? Seriously.


	2. Chapter 2

**So this is obviously AU. Enjoy**

chapter 2:

I was hoisted up on my bed, my feet on the desk next to me and my headphones blared out music. With my toes bouncing to the beat, I scrolled through my social networks. The day was too hot to even contemplate going outside because a sun burn would be imminent. Not that I had fragile skin, I did get pretty good tans, but I was not one fond of sunscreen. My mother always used to say I was asking God to burn my skin the color of crabs. And then she went out and got crabs. Bitch.

Anyways, it had been three days since my encounter with the Bates' at their spooky house. Norman had found a way to get my cell phone number and we've been texting ever since. He has a way of texting which seems like he's trying to write me a novel.

The door to my room swung gently open and Remo popped in, his signature smirk plastered on his lips. "Love?" he cooed, chuckling when my eyes rolled so much they almost stuck.

"What's up?" I asked, plopping out my earphones and throwing my phone on the pillow. I propped up on my elbows and wiggled my toes at Remo.

"I'm going to take a shower," he announced. I shook my head and frowned sarcastically.

"Don't tell me you need assistance, old man," I grumbled, making grimaces. My uncle chuckled, his tired eyes closing for half a second.

"I was going to say that if anyone comes to the door, don't answer," he replied. I gave him the thumbs up and resumed my scrolling.

Yes, Remo Wallace was my uncle. His sister, Emily, was my mother. She's still alive, but she rarely showed her face at the house. Ever since she started working for Gil the woman has been MIA. Then Gil got shot and she reduced her visits even more. Four years is the exact number that I haven't spent a full week with my mother. Before she was high off her mind in her room with a hairy chested guy on top of her. Remo had to sell his shitty house to move in with us because I was too young to take care of myself. He took me in with his ever lasting big heart (note the sarcasm) and agreed to keep the house with me.

So for the past six years and a half, the only adult in this house whose been actually present despite work is Remo. I can actual count on his ass to help me. Even though he needs a clean shave and a hair cut, he's not so bad to live around.

I got a sudden hunger strike just as I heard Remo curse as he got in the shower. The shower head tends to decide if you're taking a cold or hot shower.

And just as I made my way down the creaking stairs of this crumbling house, there was a subtle knock at the door. I paused. Now if you were a good niece, you wouldn't open that door. But I'm not you. I had always been curious of what Remo really, really did, even though I knew he worked for Gil or Zane or whoever was in charge now. There was a delicious rush that came through me every time he got a call and had to dash out the door holding a 9 mil. There was a magnetic attraction in me when I'd watch him screech out of the drive way in his truck, a look of power and slight fright in his eyes. I wanted to be a part of that, I wanted to be in that adrenaline candy.

I slowly walked to the door. Behind the shady, foggy white curtain hanging over the door, a dark figure loomed on my porch. Square shoulders peaked from under a dark t-shirt. Blonde hair was muffled over a slightly tanned face. As I turned the knob, a queasy feeling filled my stomach and I smirked. Maybe this was my shot at something awesome, to make something out of my pathetic life.

I yanked the door abruptly opened and stared into deep blue/grey eyes. "You," I gasped.

Dylan stood on the decaying floorboards of my porch, his combat boots heaving on the wood. His eyes widened, then narrowed as he took me in, recognizing me at once. "You," he gave back.

He was wearing a light blue t-shirt, muscular arms peaking from the sleeves. Blonde hairs chiseled his forearms, the same color as the untamed mane on his head. His round chin still adorned the light stubble that made him look edgy and sour. The smell of dog shit and weed was replaced by wood smoke and beer and I couldn't help but like it as the odor heightened my senses.

I slowly grew accustomed to the sight of him there. Leaning on the door frame, I crossed my arms over my Guns 'n' Roses tank top. "What do you want?" I asked, trying to avoid staring into the blue gems.

"I-uh- shit I must have the wrong house," he stuttered, scratching his head in an impossibly cute manner.

I sighed loudly. "Who you looking for?" I asked.

"Remo Wallace?" he said questioningly.

I laughed loudly and pushed the door wider, signaling for him to enter. "You're at the right address, amigo," I said. Perplexed, he stood in my doorway, his head down with a frown knitting his brows.

"You live here?" he mumbled, lifting his head slightly so our eyes could meet.

I huffed, annoyed. "No I just secretly stash myself here now and then," I grumbled sarcastically. "Of course I live here! Now come in."

Once again, he refused to step inside. I motioned angrily for him to come in, but the stubborn man chewed on his lip and stared at the ground. "Are you his daughter?" he asked finally, with a voice smaller than my rat.

I made a sound that was a laugh with many 'fs' and hung on the door. Remo could never stand a baby, let alone be the father of one. "No," I breathed between cramped laughter.

"Then who are you?" he questioned back angrily. Behind him, the sun was setting and the glowing globe cast a halo around him that enhanced his beautiful light features. For a second, even despite the frown and taunt lips, he was cute and I could have hugged him. But then the bile rose at the simple thought of it and I regained my thoughts.

"I'm his niece."

Dylan's mouth made an O shape as he put together the pieces. His eyes scanned the outside of the house as he turned on his heels to stare at the setting sun. A light chuckle emanated from his chest, rumbling through him. I stared in silence and watched the crinkles beside his mouth and eyes and didn't really care if he was hot or not. I just didn't give a shit.

"You work for Remo or?" I asked.

A hand was slowly placed beside my head and Remo emerged from behind me. He was extremely careful in not touching me and for that, I was thankful. A plaid blouse was being buttoned on my uncle and he already wore his usual dark washed jeans and boots. His hair was dripping wet and I smirked when I saw the clean shaved jaw. Points to me!

"No actually, I work for Dylan," Remo announced as he sighed and gave me the knowing look. "I thought I told you not to open the door."

I smirked and shrugged innocently. "At least I didn't open the door to the Big Bad Wolf, now did I?" I giggled as I slowly made my way out of the doorway.

"I might just be..." I heard Dylan mumble as I retreated back to my room.

* * *

_Haphephobia (also known as aphephobia, haphophobia, hapnophobia, haptephobia, haptophobia, thixophobia) is a rare specific phobia that involves the fear of touching or of being touched._

I sighed. If I really had Haphephobia or whatever else, then would I have to contact a psychiatrist? No, Remo would never be able to afford such services.

I exited the page and walked out of the library. Thoughts pushed around in my brain, begging for me to kill myself over their complexity. I hadn't been this way forever. I was never one for extreme physical contact, but now just the thought was enough for me to puke my life out. The slight feel of flesh on my own made me waver and possibly lose consciousness.

"Hey, hey, Caroline!"

I turned at the mention of my name. A dark haired, skinny boy was awkwardly marching his way towards me. For a second, I was tempted to just turn and walk away because I didn't recognize him. However, after he flashed me his wide smile, I waved back. "Norman."

"I found a way to help you, for you know, your personal response," he breathed, his chest heaving. My mouth hung slightly ajar. The simple thought of someone wanting to help me was enough to make me wanna dance. And I don't dance. Only when I'm drunk.

"Shit, Norman, thank you!" I laughed. We stood there awkwardly for a second, the lack of a high-five or something making the situation bitter.

"Pound it?" he asked lightly, making his hand into a fist and holding it out. I never knew how this peculiar boy understood my fear of being touched.

I nodded, pinching my lips together and giving his small fist a quick pound. No puke, that's good.

The bell shrilled over head and Norman waved me his goodbyes as we both separated for our classes. He had Chemistry, I had physical education. Outside, fuck! Like who gives a gym class out in the burning hot sun on a Wednesday last period? Mr. Glade does.

I raced to the locker rooms, changed into my working out clothes, and raced back outside on the track field. As I passed the fence lounging the parking lot, an unknown pick up truck caught my attention. Also the familiar young man leaning his well built frame on the door.

"Dylan?" I called, shielding my eyes from the sun. His head flicked up and our eyes met.

"Hey!" he called back, making his way over to me. I gripped the fence and leaned on one hip.

"What are you doing lurking around a high school track field?" I asked, a giggle at the back of my throat. A large hand covered his forehead. It had been two days since he'd been at my house looking for Remo and he looked like he hadn't slept since. He wore a white shirt and black jeans and his hands were crusted with dirt.

"This is public property by the way," he mumbled absentmindedly. Something about his voice, soft and tired, alarmed me. Had something gone wrong at the weed factory? Pfft. I found myself laughing internally at that. "Have you seen Norman?" His voice was whiny and nosy, like he had a cold. But such a thing was impossible in the middle of this hot day.

"He's in Chem," I grumbled back, backing away from him. "I can't get him for you."

He sighed. "Caroline."

The sound of my name whispered off his lips sounded like butter deliciously melting in a hot pan. My eyes fluttered shut for a second and my tummy filled with sparks. When I reopened my eyes, he still stared at the floor, the muscles in his shoulders taunt. "Caroline, Remo's in some big shit."

I snapped out of the haze and stared deeply at Dylan. "What?" The words came out drowned in venom. "What kind of shit, Dylan?"

Dylan stood up, gripped the roots of his hair and turned away from me. His back was impossibly taunt with stress and anger and the sight of him this distraught was making me queasy. "Dylan!" I demanded, my heart drumming harder against my rib cage.

"Oh shit, oh shit," he mumbled quietly. His voice was like a cry for help and I swiftly hopped the fence and marched towards him.

"Fucking tell me, Dylan," I demanded in a harsh tone. "Is he hurt?"

The man turned to face me, but kept his shameful eyes away from mine. Turmoil started deep from within me and worry encompassed everything. The only person I could bring myself to care about was my uncle, and I was not about to worry myself to death for the idiot.

"You know Gil was killed, right?" he started hesitantly. I nodded furiously. "So the boss sent in Zane. And Zane's a tough guy, man, he doesn't mess around. He's already killed Nick Ford's guys and he's bloodthirsty. Remo knows this, fuck, he works with the guy." He stopped, pinched his lips and let out an angry growl. "Look, Zane's a ruthless boss, he'd kill anyone who'd cross him. And Remo's my friend, get it? He's a good guy and I don't want to see him dead. B-but, Caroline, shit!"

I watched him punch the door of his truck and lean his arm against it. His forehead slowly connected with the arm and he let out angry, hallowed breaths.

"Dylan," I said softly, deciding a more soft approach.

"I'm telling you this because you're all he's got," he whispered. "But he fucked up, Caroline."

"What did he do?" I asked, my voice final and strong.

Dylan rose up and straightened his shoulders. He looked left and right, then straight into my eyes and I saw the deep worry they swam in. Holy shit, what had Remo done?

"He stole money from Zane."


End file.
